“You keep saying we don’t see you as a woman,” I say. “Prove us wrong or prove yourself right. But don’t do it for a room full of strangers.”
She looks between us, chin lifted, eyes bright. Pride wrestles caution, anger wrestles some small, traitorous part of her that has always loved a dare. Then she reaches and curls her fingers around the fabric, knuckles white against red.
“Fine,” she says.
“Good.” The word scrapes out of me.
“But if one of you tries to stop me, if one of you pulls a graduation stunt in the middle of it, I’m done.” She points to each of us, sharp as a blade tip. “With all of it. For good.”
The threat plants itself like a stake between us. I step close enough to see the small pulse beat at her throat, close enough to smell sweat and lemon and the ocean caught in her hair.
“We won’t stop you,” I tell her.
Her pupils flare. “That’s not reassuring.”
I let the corner of my mouth lift. “See you tonight, princess.”
I turn before I say too much and walk out into the cooler hall. Silas follows, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the fight still lit behind his eyes. Cal lingers, his gaze on Parker like he’s memorizing a page he tore out years ago.
“Wear your hair down,” he says, and then he’s beside us and the door clicks shut.
The three of us stand in the quiet for a beat that feels like the edge of a storm. Silas huffs a laugh that has no humor in it. “Well,” Silas says finally. “That was?—”
“Don’t.” I cut him off.
“I was just going to say that went better than expected.”
“It didn’t.” Cal runs a hand over his face. “It really didn’t.”
“She’s going to dance for us,” Silas points out. “In that. How is that not a win?”
“Because,” I say, already walking toward the elevator, “we just asked Charles’s little sister to give us a lap dance in front of half the wedding party.”
“She’s not Charles’s little sister anymore,” Cal says quietly. “She made that very clear.”
He’s right.
Tonight, when the lights hit her on stage, she won’t be the boss’s little girl anymore. She won’t be our best friend’s sister.
She’ll be ours.
8
PARKER
Iwatch my reflection in the mirror like I’m looking at a stranger wearing my face, this creature draped in barely-there black mesh and crimson silk that clings to curves I’ve spent years hiding beneath oversized sweaters and safe, sensible dresses. The costume — if you can call something this scandalous a costume — leaves nothing to imagination, every line of my body exposed through strategic panels of sheer fabric that catch the light like smoke, the deep V plunging between my breasts held together by a single rhinestone clasp that feels like it might give way if I breathe too deeply. My hands tremble as I smooth them over my hips, feeling the delicate straps that crisscross my thighs, the way the material rides high enough to make my legs look endless, and I can’t reconcile this image with the woman who stood in a boardroom three days ago, pitching vibrators to executives while pretending her hands weren’t shaking beneath the conference table.
The air tastes like hairspray and anticipation, thick with the vanilla-sweet fog from the machines they’re testing in the ballroom next door, and I can hear the bass from the sound check thrumming through the walls like a secondary heartbeatthat makes my stomach flip. Stage lights are already warming somewhere beyond these walls, that particular electric heat that makes everything feel both too real and completely surreal, and I press my palms flat against my abdomen, trying to steady the wild flutter beneath my ribs. This is insane — standing here in what amounts to lingerie, about to dance in front of a room full of people who’ve known me since I wore pigtails and skinned knees, about to perform something explicitly sexual when I’ve never even...God, if they knew. If anyone in that room knew that Parker Carter, twenty-eight years old, Columbia and USC graduate, successful professional woman, has never actually been touched by anyone, never let anyone close enough to discover what lies beneath the armor of competence and control I wear like a second skin.
I find Rochelle adjusting her own costume near the vanity station, her reflection catching mine in the mirror as I approach, and something in my expression must give me away because she turns immediately, eyebrows rising as she takes in what must be pure panic bleeding through my carefully applied makeup.
“I need to change the staging for my section,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel, that same professional tone I use when negotiating contracts, when pretending I belong in rooms full of people who don’t know I’m drowning. “Three benches instead of one chair.”
She blinks, her perfectly lined eyes widening as she processes what I’m saying, the logistics of it clearly spinning through her mind like calculations. “Wait — three? You’re only supposed to dance for one person, that’s the whole point of the?—”
“Three benches arranged in a circle on my platform, or I have to drop out entirely.” The words come out firm, final, the kind of tone that doesn’t invite argument even as my pulse racesbeneath the thin strap at my throat. “I won’t do that to Sienna; she’s been planning this for months, but this is non-negotiable.”
Rochelle studies me for a long moment, something flickering in her expression that might be understanding or might be suspicion, then she grabs the stage manager’s headset from the counter and starts rattling off instructions about platform six needing three curved benches instead of a single chair, ignoring his protests about last-minute changes. When she’s done, she turns back to me with that particular look that means she knows there’s a story here, but she’s choosing not to dig — yet.
